Knights Magi (Book 4) (73 page)

He came down the stairs, cleansed and resolute, if no less tired.  Tyndal was
smoking a pipe and absently stirred an iron kettle of pork and potatoes that he’d heated near to boiling by magic.  Belsi was sitting quietly under the magelight, stiffly stripping down her crossbow the way Rondal had shown her.  She barely glanced up at him when he came in.  Tyndal spooned out the stew into wooden bowls and added a strip of hardtack to each.

The meal passed in near silence.  The question of Belsi’s disposition loomed over all three of them.  Rondal found both of his companions stealing guilty glances toward him, then looking away before he could catch their eye.  It made him uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than he already was.  But if there was anything to be said that hadn’t been already, he couldn’t think of it.

“I’m going to turn in,” he announced, finally.  “I think we all need some sleep.  I think we can dispense with a watch.  We’ve warded the place.  We’ll awaken if anything tries to get inside the walls,” he reasoned to himself as much as anyone.  He dragged himself upstairs without waiting for a response, and then made up a bed for himself in one corner of the tower out of his cloak and a few dusty blankets.

But once he laid his head down, despite how much his body ached with exhaustion, sleep refused to come.

It was Belsi’s fate that weighed on him, he realized.  Losing Alwer so suddenly and violently had been a shock, but that was not what was tormenting him.  Knowing he would have to . . . do
something
about the girl on the morrow was the demon that chased sleep away.  He stared into the darkness above his head and toyed with the idea of calling Master Minalan mind-to-mind, or even Lady Pentandra – this sort of thing was well within her domain. 

But he knew doing that would be pushing the burden onto someone else’s shoulders.  No matter how dreadful it was to bear himself, the idea of forcing someone else to bear it for him was abhorrent.  He could not ask Minalan or Pentandra – or even Tyndal – for advice on this.  He was the commander, and this was an issue – she was an issue – within his command.  It was his responsibility, and he alone had to live with the consequences.  He and
Belsi.

He felt the beginnings of mind-to-mind contact and desperately hoped it was Pentandra or Minalan, but it was just Tyndal.

What?

I’ve been thinking about
Belsi.

I’ll contain my shock.

What if she just . . . slipped away?  If somehow she—

No, Tyndal,
Rondal said with a mental sigh. 
You aren’t holding this goat, remember? 
There was a long pause.

Just thought I’d call it to your attention,
Tyndal finished glumly as he climbed the stairs and made himself a bed in the opposite corner.  He rolled up a spare blanket for a pillow and pulled his cloak over him.  The cool Gilmoran autumn wasn’t nearly as bad as Sevendor’s – and in Boval they’d have snow by now – but it still required a bit of wool against the night. 

Rondal did his best to ignore Tyndal and go to sleep.  Instead, tortured thoughts of all he had seen and all he had felt churned in his mind . . . until they were all banished by a creak on the stairs.

Belsi.  He’d thought that she would take advantage of the more-comfortable second floor the boys had yielded to her.  It was less draughty.  But he listened as she walked across the creaky floor and paused.  He automatically invoked magesight to watch her.  She hovered at the top of the stairs.

For a terrified moment Rondal thought she might want to speak to him again, perhaps plead with him about her fate.  He nearly called a Cat’s Eye spell, which would have revealed much more detail to him.  But he didn’t, for once appreciative of the concealing darkness.  He let magesight drop, too, and then closed his eyes altogether.

He listened as the steps moved in another direction – and Rondal realized that Belsi was headed toward where Tyndal was bedded down. 

Part of him was relieved, another part of him became cold, his heart hardening at the thought.  He could hear whispers, almost audible (and well-within the range of the Long Ears) but he made no effort to discern them.  He didn’t want to know what they were talking about.  He could guess.

Feeling humiliated and rejected, he tried to calm his angry mind by reciting various brutal hymns to Duin in his head.  Better than spells, he decided.  He might accidentally cast something nasty, the way he felt.

He had nearly drifted off to sleep when he heard another creek, and then a shadow loomed over him in the darkness.  A feminine shadow.

“Sir Rondal?” she whispered hesitantly.  “Are you awake?”

“What is it,
Belsi?” he asked, tiredly, with exaggerated patience.

She didn’t answer.  Or rather, she answered by crouching down and sliding into his bedding beside him.  She wore nothing, he discovered.  Her bare skin smelled of fresh soap and dried herbs.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

“Say nothing, my lord,” she pleaded in the darkness.  “Ask no questions, speak no words,” she commanded.  Before he could consider responding, her mouth was on his.

Tyndal?
He squeaked, mind-to-mind, in a panic. 
What—?

Shut up and be a goddamn knight
, came the harsh reply.  It was a command, not a suggestion.

Rondal had a hard time doing that with
Belsi’s soft, compliant body plastered against his own.  It was the fulfillment of weeks of fantasies and dreams, and his body rejoiced with every fresh kiss.  Yet Rondal’s mind was in turmoil, still reeling from the rejection and anger she’d inspired.  The entanglement of her deceit tainted the first of her kisses, but soon Rondal’s resolve crumbled, allured by the soft promise of her femininity. 

Her hands were soft and cool and very busy as she undressed him in the darkness.  At first he just lay there passively and let her work at the laces, so dazed was he by confusion over her actions.  Why was she there?  Because she felt obligated?  Because she wished to sway judgement?  Because she felt scared and alone and wanted comfort?  Because she honestly liked him?  He was grateful for her admonition not to speak – he had a thousand questions, and he feared the answer to every one.

But then some part of his mind rejected his rejection, citing the soft, warm, intoxicating creature removing his tunic and quietly asking him to move over as a compelling reason to do so.  He’d nearly been killed today, as had she, and her lips were like a glass of honey-rimmed mead.  A knight knew that mead was for celebrations, he remembered dully.  That seemed like enough reason for him to abandon his misgivings and cooperate with Ishi’s blessing.

Belsi
was hesitant but determined when she began, penitent and apologetic;  but as he began to respond to her actions she renewed her efforts and her kisses with enthusiasm, particularly her attack on his neck.  She crawled on top of him, just to lay there with her breasts pressed against his hairy chest, and nuzzled her nose into his neck below his ear.

“I feel so safe right now,” she sighed, her body going limp on top of his..

Rondal didn’t respond – he wasn’t sure what to say, and now really wasn’t the time for conversation.  But it seemed to banish some of the lingering doubt about whether she truly wanted to be with him, and why. 

He knew she did not love him.  He knew she favored Tyndal more.  He knew that her giving herself to him might be a bribe, or an attempt to maneuver.

But that is not what his instincts told him as she twisted and turned in his arms.  Here was a very, very frightened girl who had suffered and brush with death and was desperate for comfort and security.  He was not her jailor, here, nor her commander, nor her lord to her common blood.  He was a merely a strong man who could make the vulnerable girl feel safe, and her actions were, in part at least, inspired by the pure gratitude she bore him, and her desire to reward and indulge it. 

That he understood.  That he could accomplish.  He didn’t have to be cute or wealthy or brave or handsome, he just had to be here and be her protector for a little while.  That was a role he understood.  He considered what Tyndal had said about confidence, during their errantry, about it being the feeling of assuredness you got when you knew what was going to happen.  Regardless of anything else, he knew he could give this poor, mixed-up girl a sense of protection to cling to. 

He considered saying something stupid and funny to break the tension, like he would after an awkwardly stolen kiss.  Instead he kissed her back, feeling his accumulated rage and anger mingle with his feelings of victory and success and all of that transformed with the touch of her lips into passion. 

Overwhelming passion.  His heart thudded like he was in battle, and his hands traced her lines as he delighted in her reaction.  The fear, the rejection, the suspicion, the sense of betrayal he’d felt for her evaporated in the face of the inundation of pure, animalistic passion he felt now that he had he in his arms. 

In moments, he was as naked as she was, the cool of the night forgotten as he began to explore her body with his hands.  His fingers felt in the dark all that he had dreamed of about the girl.  Her rounded arse, her perfectly curving back, the nape of her neck, the firm, resilient and utterly soft skin of her breasts.  He was gentle, if firm, and he noted with pleasure that his hands had her quivering with excitement as they sought to commit her body to memory.

She, too, became caught up in passion when his hands found her most sacred parts, just before her hands found his.  Eagerly, their hands sped the connection they both sought.  Their mutual passion became a cleansing wave, scouring away the encrustations of doubt and confusion he’d borne so long.  Regardless
of everything else, there was something right, something pure in this.  He understood Ishi’s Blessing, now, he realized in part of his mind.  He understood the magnificent restorative power a woman’s touch could have on a man – not just his body, but to his soul.

They coupled feverishly, at first, with a terrible intensity that threaten to overwhelm them.  But Rondal realized the danger of such a precipitous course and eased her pace instead into one of consistent, but compelling desire.  He chanced magesight a few times to monitor how Belsi was enjoying herself, and she seemed just as engaged and excited as he was.  He relaxed and allowed his body to enjoy itself.  And hers.

He did not know when Tyndal joined them, but after they had sated their desires a first time and were beginning a second, his fellow knight and apprentice quietly appeared over them in the darkness.

Rondal was confused - was the Haystack actually jealous?  Until Tyndal also slid into the impromptu nest – helpfully bringing another blanket.  “Scoot over,” he whispered to Belsi.

Rondal struggled a moment with a surge of emotions so strong and vicious they threatened to accidently be expressed magically.  He felt a sense of possessiveness and territoriality with Belsi after such an intimate moment.  But felt her heart quicken under his breast and he saw the gleam in her eye by magesight and he knew that she favored the inclusion.  She was not
his
, after all.  She had shared herself with no promise or expectation.  With barely any words.

Rondal tensed as his fellow joined them, but he let the tension dissipate.  He decided he cared not if she favored Tyndal the more, or if she was posturing for escape or angling for favor in his decision.   As sweet and attractive as
Belsi was, she had proven herself unworthy of his permanent affections.  This was not a woman he would wed, he knew, nor did he care to give her his heart any more than he had already.

Other parts, he decided, he was far more willing to share.

“Scoot over,” repeated a half-naked Tyndal.  “It’s cold!  But I brought a bottle of spirits.”

Belsi giggled and did just that, making Rondal move, too.  He started to get resentful again when her hand stayed him.

“No maid was ever so fortunate as to have the favor of two such magnificent knights,” she announced in a contended voice after she took a sip of the small bottle.  “Thank you, gentlemen, for your bravery today.  And all the days before.  Whatever may come, you have my respect, admiration, and gratitude for that.”

It was a speech Lady Arsella would have made, Rondal realized.  It sounded natural coming out of her mouth.  He looked across her naked breasts at Tyndal’s grinning face.  He was willing to take her declaration at face value.  Rondal sighed and decided he would do the same.  It just kept things less complicated.

Rondal watched, idly, for a few moments as Belsi mounted Tyndal as she had him, and he enjoyed the vicarious thrill of observing her passion from a different perspective.  In magesight he saw the wild, untamed look on her face as she found Tyndal’s manhood and seated herself on it, a moan of satisfaction escaping her lips.  He watched them couple for awhile, appreciating the act from a spectator’s vantage until it began to have an effect on him.

He rose, silently, and both of the lovers looked up, confused, momentarily stopping their lovemaking to look at him.  Belsi looked more fearful, Tyndal looked more curious.  Rondal had a brief desire to let his suppressed anger and rage overtake him . . . but that was not his first or strongest inclination. 

Wordlessly he bent to kiss Belsi, who continued her gyrations atop of Tyndal.  Indeed, her movements became more excited the longer he held the kiss, until he felt her hands once more wander to his body, her skin nearly aglow with excitement.  Her desires had gone from apologetic to grateful to enthusiastically eager, and she demonstrated that by her willingness to entertain both of the lads at the same time.  Indeed, Rondal noted, she seemed to enjoy that most of all.